


Regret

by stitchcasual



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Multi, Regret, Season 2 spoilers, Sparring as Therapy, the other paladins make a brief cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 21:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Keith runs hotter than everyone else as a matter of course, but if he's not careful, this regret over Shiro will burn him alive.





	Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a group challenge prompt on "regret" (to which I cackled gleefully because that kind of angst is Right Up My Alley)

It’s in the heavy weight he carries in his chest after the Kerberos mission is lost. It’s the way he shuts down and lashes out at instructors and fellow recruits. It’s the voice that tells him he deserves this, that he hadn’t belonged at the Galaxy Garrison in the first place. It manifests in the guilt that if he had only been smarter, faster, quicker, he could have been there too, could have done something.

It’s the holes in his wall from flinging his knife against them, time and time again.

It becomes an old friend, a constant companion filling the hole Shiro left, over the year he’s missing. It whispers to him as he searches across the desert, as he makes connections between bits and pieces, as he sleeps and dreams and wakes feeling bereft. It’s what keeps him listening in to Garrison transmissions through the boring chatter and routine scuttlebutt.

It’s the reason he sets off the charges as a distraction to draw the Garrison troops away from what they salvaged from the crash: he has to know what it is. It paralyzes him in the doorway when he realizes they’d rescued a  _ person. _

If anything, it only gets stronger when he sees Shiro, strapped to that table and sedated.  _ Shiro. How? _ His arm, mechanical; his hair, a shock of white; a new scar vivid across his face.  _ Is he even the same person? _

It gets shut away behind a heavy door in his mind, unhelpful in this moment as he draws his knife and frees his friend, the person who means the most to him. He nearly forgets about it as he throws Shiro’s arm around his shoulders, steadies the dead weight and his own heartbeat, and turns for the door.

Lance is a good distraction, though he’d never admit it out loud and definitely not anywhere Lance could ever overhear. 

Evading and outrunning Garrison troops is a better distraction, even with three extra people clinging to his hovercraft. At least the big one is useful for sharp turns and the little one keeps hold of Shiro as he pushes the craft to its limits.

It’s the voice that says  _ what if he doesn’t want to see you? what if he’s forgotten you? what if he never cared at all? _ It repeats and repeats as he paces the house, waiting.

Later, when Shiro’s woken up from whatever the Garrison doctors put into his system, after he’s dressed in spare clothes surprisingly his size that Keith gives no explanation for, and once he’s taken a few minutes to himself to look out across the desert he used to know, Keith approaches him. Lays a hand on his left shoulder, the one that is still fully flesh and bone. Pretends he doesn’t see the haunted look that slides from Shiro’s eyes as he crosses his arms and shifts his focus to Keith.

He can’t come up with something fitting to say to Shiro after his confession, his own head feeling pretty scrambled standing here with him, looking up into eyes he hadn’t allowed himself to hope he’d ever see again. Can’t hope to answer the question Shiro poses with any semblance of sense so he just invites him to the house to see what he’s spent the last year working on, drawn to without reason. He leads the way back, terrified for three seconds before he hears Shiro following. 

He explains, as best he can, and watches Shiro interact with the Garrison hangers-on. Sees the hesitation in Lance before he shakes Shiro’s artificial limb. Hears  _ something _ in Shiro’s voice when he speaks to Pidge about the mission and the crew. Wishes he could see Shiro’s face as he talks about his captivity.

And then there’s no more time to think, just react. The lion, the aliens, the wormhole, the castle, the frozen-for-ten-thousand-years princess. And through it all, Shiro, standing tall and strong, providing an anchor for them all within the swirl and press of unfamiliarity and oncoming conflict.

It sneaks back into his mind when Shiro leaves to get the green lion, the feeling that  _ he _ should be strong for Shiro, not the other way around.

They grow close again, once more exchanging unconscious touches as they had in the Garrison when they were alone, training or studying. He apologizes over and over as he clasps Shiro’s shoulder before sitting next to him to eat, when he taps Shiro’s arm after a sparring session, as he lets their hands touch as they sprawl together in the common area after the others have gone to sleep. And Shiro forgives him in each smile he directs only at Keith, each grip of a shoulder or arm as they brief before missions, each rare, treasured brush of lips across Keith’s forehead before he goes to his room to sleep.

The bond they form with each other, with the rest of the paladins, is almost enough to make him believe they can do it. He does believe it, for a while. With Shiro leading them, no setback feels insurmountable. Until the princess is captured and their desperate fight at Galra command. This time, at least he’s there to try to come to Shiro’s aid when the black lion goes unresponsive, can at least guard the lion against Zarkon when Shiro goes for the princess. But that means he’s not there when Shiro is hurt, can’t protect him from that, even as Shiro saves  _ him _ at the end. It creeps back in.

It fuels his dash across the planet they land on when they’re knocked from the wormhole, the pain he can hear in Shiro’s voice just as clearly as he can hear Shiro trying to hide it. That almost makes him laugh. Instead he breathes, tries to shut it out of his mind while using its strength to run faster, jump farther. It mingles with fear as they sit, hoping the others will find them, and Shiro talks as if he were already dead. It makes his words in response feel selfish rather than comforting, and he hates them, hates himself for being unable to say anything else.

It fades again when Shiro emerges from the pod, healed and whole as best he can be, considering. Having something new to focus on helps. They move forward together. Shiro trains with him most days, both of them obsessed with getting better before they meet Zarkon again. They push each other hard, using their sessions in the simulator to test out new situations, new weapons, throwing anything and everything they can think of at themselves. They spar, Keith with his bayard, Shiro with his arm, not letting up for an instant when they face off. There’s no room for tenderness on the battlefield.

Afterward, they’re gentle, ghosting fingers across the new bruises they caused, arms sneaking around shoulders and waists as they walk down hallways talking strategy. He finds it doesn’t bother him when Shiro spends time with the princess, when she kisses him. Shiro’s happiness matters more to him, and as long as it doesn’t bother the princess when Shiro wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his hair after a close call, the arrangement will work.

The Blade of Marmora complicates things. The pain of the Trials. The revelation of his heritage. The stony face and distrust of the princess when she learns. He withdraws; Shiro follows, grounds him, draws him back up. 

And then they’re fighting again, pulling together as a team like they never have before, and yet everything still goes wrong around them. Zarkon splits the lions, and he tries to lead the others, occupy Zarkon so he doesn’t go after the unresponsive black lion and Shiro. But Shiro is strong, he comes back, and they score the hit they need to, destroy Zarkon’s armor, and run before his ship can come back online.

They lose Antok to the druids, though the rest of them make it out, but Shiro… All that’s left is the bayard Shiro somehow stole back from Zarkon. But Shiro… 

_ Shiro _ . Once again, he’s failed Shiro, lost him. He’d somehow fooled himself into believing that with him at Shiro’s side, with the princess on the other, he could protect Shiro.

It keeps him up at night, wakes him with nightmares whenever he manages to drop off to sleep. It replays Shiro’s words to him, the ones he keeps to himself and doesn’t share with the others, because how can he lead Voltron when he couldn’t watch over Shiro? It trips him up when he spends hours in the simulator against generated opponents, reminding him of the last time Shiro was there with him. It distances him from the rest of the team even as he knows they need to draw together to capitalize on the momentum from their last battle.

It burns inside of him, white-hot.

It leaves no room for anything else, consuming him with grief. It wracks him, wrings him, dries him out, leaves him shivering and cold. It is a bitter paradox. It amplifies his pain while blinding him to the pain of the others.

Until it shifts.

He finds Allura with her staff already taking up the training room when he arrives late at night, blades in hand. He nearly leaves. Instead he watches, watches the set of her face as she brings the staff down on the head of her opponent and two more rush her. Watches the furrow between her eyes as she jabs the staff backward at one, the frown of her lips as she whips the staff around to swipe the other off its feet. Hears the concussive gasp when one last opponent smacks her in the back and she falls to her knees. Sees the confusion and concern and anger play across her face when she sees him. 

He holds both blades in one hand and offers her the other. She accepts it after staring at him for a minute, and neither one of them moves for a while once she’s gained her feet. Then she restarts the simulator, gesturing for him to join her. He holds his Galra blade in his left hand, and she hesitates a minute when she sees it, old prejudices die hard, but she nods at him once and they move as one, blades and staff making short work of the simulation waves. Once, then again, and again, until both of them are too sore and tired to continue.

And he feels it shift, its focus leaving Shiro and fixing on Allura, but softer. Shiro needed him and he failed him. Allura  _ needs _ him and he has failed her. But he doesn’t feel lost now; he feels purpose. He can’t be Shiro, but he can stand by Allura and fight with her against their enemies in his stead. He can watch her back when she’s looking elsewhere, focus her as Shiro used to do for him. 

They can share the weight they both feel. It doesn't leave, but it does grow easier to bear as they move forward together, fixing themselves as a binary star, the center of their small universe, and gathering the others into their orbit. It's what Shiro would have wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing in the Voltron universe (unless you count that teeny drabble I put on [tumblr](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/159425642054/dont-mind-me-just-writing-for-not-albatross)), so be gentle :P


End file.
